


All Things Have a Price

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Grunkle Ford's Portal Adventures, Multi, Oviposition, Psychic Manipulation, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rule 63, Sex Pollen, Tentacle Sex, past stancest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 04:41:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8783560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Ford should know better than to shake hands with strange beings, at this point. Apparently she doesn't. AKA, 63!Ford/Random alien tentacle sex.





	

“Is this…standard?” she asks.

Olleo doesn’t answer immediately, which Ford doesn’t notice, too distracted by the tentacles circling over her limbs. “Of course,” they say, a little too stridently. “All Cylos greet each other like this. Always.” 

“Oh.” One of the tentacles is creeping up her thigh, high enough now that Ford is beginning to flush. In the hopes that a greeting in return will make them stop, she turns toward the center of the Cylo and bends forward – a sight more difficult than it should be, as the tentacles are tightening more with each second. She extends her hand toward the base of the largest tentacle. 

Behind her, Olleo sucks in a whistling breath. 

“Greetings,” Ford says. “My name is Anglia.” The tentacles have stopped moving; she can feel the creature’s attention on her, rising in intensity. Ford swallows. “You are?”

One of the tentacles slides down her arm to wrap neatly around her palm. Its suckers tickle between her fingers and make her shiver. 

“You filthy girl,” Olleo murmurs behind her. 

“Excuse me?” Ford tries to turn back to Olleo, but the tentacles have no give, now. Ford’s not quite ready to panic, but something like it is building in her, making her chest tight. “What – what did I do?” She tries to yank her hand back, but the Cylo tightens its grip; when her fingers flex against it, the suckers yank at her skin. She winces. She could probably still reach her gun, if she does it now, but – she’s not sure it’s necessary. “Tell me what’s happening. _Now.”_

“Well,” Olleo says, stepping close. They set their hands on Ford’s shoulders; she twitches and looks at them. “You just offered to carry her next batch of eggs.”

“ _I did what?”_

“Relax, it’s not as bad as it sounds.”

“I take it back! I take it back!”

“You humans have mammalian reproductive organs, right? So you should have a vaginal cavity. So you can hold them. They’re really very small. Besides, the effects should start kicking in any minute.”

“Effects?” But Ford already knows what Olleo is referring to. Her body, which had been taut as a bowstring, is relaxing; the panic ebbs out of her, as steady as an ocean’s tide. She swallows, and moves to sit. The Cylo’s tentacles take her weight. “Oh,” she says. “Oh,” she says again, as the tentacle on her thigh slides up between her legs. It slithers against her slacks and her head rolls back. 

“I should’ve told you,” Olleo says. They sound almost apologetic, but not quite. “But you also should’ve told me that you’re the outlaw the APR wants, so that makes us even.”

Ford blinks up at Olleo. “You know?” she asks. For the first time in a long, long time, she is not afraid of that possibility in the slightest. It’s almost funny, really. 

“Cylos are psychic,” they say. “And mine is mine, is mine, and I am hers.” 

“That’s…romantic,” Ford says. One of the tentacles pushes wetly up her shirt and she gasps – it’s _cold_ , and slick, the slime they produce much thicker than it looks. “I might want to kill you both when she’s done with me.” 

“Fair enough.” 

“I probably will.” Ford moans. The tentacle between her legs is grinding impatiently at the seam of her slacks, sending waves of pleasure up her spine. “Help me undress,” she says. “I don’t think she understands my clothing.”

“She does,” Olleo says. Still, they bend over Ford’s shoulder and gently peel her shirt up over her breasts. They pause, finger the strap of Ford’s bra, then flip that up too. Ford shudders. Her nipples are hard, and aching. Olleo touches one, curiously; when Ford sucks in a sharp breath, they pinch it. “Oh! I see.” They lift their head and say something that even her translator doesn’t pick up – it gives her noisy feedback and a few garbled half-words. It sounds like pig latin, and that thought sends her mind spinning inexplicably back to Earth, to Stan, to an eager, wet tongue between her legs.

“No,” she says, softly. She won’t think about that, as strange and tempting as it is to remember home, to remember _Stan,_ without the following surge of bitterness, and anger, and pain. She wonders if the Cylo is making her think of it. She wonders if the plate in her skull affects psychics, or just creatures like Bill Cipher. Then, Olleo’s large hands are at her waist, helping the Cylo undo her belt. Ford bucks her hips up into the touch and sighs with relief when they manage to unzip them and pull them down.

The Cylo makes quick work of her, then: She tips Ford back until her head is angled toward the ground, her hands bound tight to her sides. Her thighs, the Cylo spreads, opening Ford’s pussy to the cold air; she gasps. “Yes,” she says, “that’s it. What – what you need,” she clarifies. The rest of her explanation is cut off when a tentacle slides between her labia, slick and fluid and strong, then _in._ It enters her so swiftly and smoothly that her body registers it as shock, first. 

“ _Fuck!”_ The effects of the drug must be in full swing, now, because Ford is starting to blur, her body unfamiliar to her. There is no pain, no fear, no anger. The past is a pleasant blur, flickering images of her sister’s hand in hers, of sunny days, sunburnt shoulders, chafed kisses. The future is only the Cylo, and pleasure, and taking as much of her as she can. Bill will never find her again. Bill cannot touch her here. 

Ford begins to weep as the tentacle pulses inside of her, thick and steady, rubbing the textured walls inside of her until her belly is tight. She’s going to come. 

“Good girl,” Olleo says, when it crests in her. Ford’s thighs shake; her fingers and toes curl tight, tight. Their hands stroke Ford’s hair back, smoothing the Cylo’s slickness and her own sweat away from her face. “Not so bad, huh?” 

The world seems oddly still; the Cylo is simply holding her, letting her ride out the aftershocks of pleasure until she can breathe again. When she can, she tilts her head towards Olleo and asks, “Is…she done?”

“No.”

As if that is her cue, the Cylo begins moving again, her tentacle pushing deeper into Ford, the others slipping over her body. The tentacle inside of Ford begins to thicken, stretching her. There is something soft and delicate at Ford’s mouth – Olleo’s genitals, she thinks, and begins to lick and suck, moaning around the strange shaft. 

The first egg shocks Ford – the thickness of it starts at her slit, wider and wider until she thinks she can’t take it – and then relief, deeper than before, as it pushes in, expanding her from the inside out. She can feel it nestle inside of her, hot and slick. The next one is easier, because she’s braced for it – but after that, she starts to wonder if it will be too much, if she’ll be able to take it as well as Olleo thinks she can. Olleo knows so little about humans. Ford knows so little about them. 

Stan comes to her again, unbidden, a memory she’s forgotten – a fall evening, the two of them sitting together in Ford’s bed, Ford kissing her bruised knuckles one by one, sucking softly at the flesh of her palm. The low scrape of Stan’s laughter. Another: Stan leaning on the starboard railing, her white shirt hitched up to show the dimple at her lower back. Stan, red and laughing and wild. 

Ford comes again, her memories blinking away, her mind blinking off. Ford is her body, and her body alone. Like this, she might be happy.

The Cylo lowers her to the ground, tenderly. There’s dust of some kind in Ford’s hair, all over her clothes, her chest. She wonders if that means Olleo finished. The tentacle slides out of her, and though Ford automatically clenches herself against the eggs, one of them pops out, skidding across the floor. Ford whines. 

“There you go,” Olleo says. “Told you it’s not that bad.”

“I’ll kill you,” she murmurs. There is no vitriol to it at all; it sounds more like affectionate pillow-talk than a threat, though Ford is aware that logically, it must be true. Ford rolls onto her side and buries her face in the crook of her elbow. “If you’re not gone when I wake up, you’re dead. I swear it.”

The Cylo’s cool weight slowly rests on Ford, from her legs to her chest. One of her tentacles rubs at her ear, then slides through her hair. It’s a deeply soothing touch, one that Ford nuzzles into, moaning softly. She’s never been this calm.

In her mind, rain patters against a window; she and Stan are curled under a blanket, warm and close. Ford is reading Melville to Stan, because she’d wheedled and pleaded; she is rewarded by Stan’s broad hand brushing through her hair. She thinks only of the quiet pleasure of being sheltered here, with her. 

Ford sleeps, and does not dream.

When she wakes, she will be alone, and empty.


End file.
